


In my past life, I was an interior decorator

by iniquiticity



Series: a heart made of wood [3]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Ironflint, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, BDSM, Bad People Hurting Each Other and Themselves, Breathplay, Choking, Collars, Come Eating, Control, Darkfic, Dubious Morality, Emotional Manipulation, Exhibitionism, Hair Pulling, Idfic, Impact Play, Leather, M/M, Masochism, Mental Instability, No Aftercare, Objectification, Older Man/Younger Man, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Dynamics, Self Harm, Self Harm by Proxy, Self-Medication via Sex, Size Kink, Undernegotiated Kink, Unreliable Narrator, dark themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-21 13:48:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7389463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iniquiticity/pseuds/iniquiticity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So the conquest of the condo is really the last step in the process. The couch is easy, the shower next, the kitchen a little more difficult. His next fixation is the dining room table.</p>
<p>They're a perfectly matched set, like the way wolves' teeth line up with one another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In my past life, I was an interior decorator

**Author's Note:**

  * For [malapertqueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/malapertqueen/gifts).



> Please note the tags and moderate your experience accordingly. Take care of yourself.
> 
> This takes place somewhere in the middle of [Striking Iron with Flint](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6837667). You don't need to read it to follow this (which is essentially PWP), but it'll help. If you choose not to read it, all you really need to know is these are particularly unflattering modern character interpretations. 
> 
> Also, Dark Founding Fathers porn on July 4th. It me, a very bad person. 
> 
> As always, you can always reach me for comments, concerns, questions, feedback, prompts, etc, at [@picklesnake](https://twitter.com/picklesnake) on twitter, or [iniquiticity](http://iniquiticity.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.

Sometimes they hold private meetings in Washington’s condo. It, like everything else about him, is sterile and dark-gorgeous, with every item quietly understating the extravagant wealth of its owner. Alex doesn’t understand the art, but he memorizes the names, histories, and artists of all of it anyway, in case he has to tour-guide here at some point. Washington’s evident favorite, that he likes to look at when he thinks, is an original Jackson Pollack hanging across the living room from a grey couch, where any real human would have a television.

(Alex asks how much it costs, off hand. Washington thinks for a moment. The answer is 23 million, plus fees.)

In many ways it’s exactly like what Alex would imagine his boss’ place to be like, only Alex expected him to have a chef and a butler, and if they’re hired, he never sees them.

Washington prefers his own apartment for his personal musings and larger future ambitions. Washington sits on the grey couch - one of the most uncomfortable couches Alex has ever sat on, and he lived on the street for eighteen months - and shit-talks the journalists that he doesn’t like and regulators that clamp down on his plans. He thinks about mergers and acquisitions. He considers the employees that he wants to poach from other companies for one reason or another, and how to best suggest (demand, of course, is what he means) they should work for him. 

Alex sits in a desk chair which is just as uncomfortable as it looks and lets Washington’s ideas roll off him. Adds, when he thinks he’s supposed to add. Suggests, when he thinks he’s supposed to suggest. He’s gotten very good at guessing when Washington wants him to add something to his thought. This job is wild and powerful and overbearing and crushing and everything Alex has always wanted. Sure, there’s enough hours in the day to get fucked or thoroughly beaten but there’s too few for him to really stop. He despises really stopping. Washington is constantly filling him up with new information, with ideas, with projects and challenges. He hates to be empty, to be left alone with his thoughts. 

The first time he convinces Washington into fucking him in his apartment is over the arm of that uncomfortable, expensive grey couch. The arms of it are square, and the wood or metal underneath the fabric bites into his stomach as Washington fucks him in his characteristically relentless fashion. It’s furious and exquisite and blanks his brain out of thinking about anything other than skin on skin, that big cock, Washington’s unbearable focus narrowed down to him and only him. He thinks about coming all over the couch - that’d get Washington going, get him beat good and hard - but resists. He wants to be fucked here again. He wants to be fucked on this couch, in Washington’s bedroom (which he hasn’t gotten to see), over the kitchen table, over the long dining room table - oh, he has plans for that table - on the foyer floor, against the entry door, in the luxuriously large shower, in the clawfoot tub. He has plans. 

Washington comes with a low grunt and pulls away from his body. Alex concentrates on catching his breath or trying to see straight, and he releases his white-knuckle grip of the couch arm and just lets himself fall onto the unbearably soft carpet. His hips ache, his ass is sore, his mind is blank. For a few moments he just pants there, and then with a groan he rolls over and onto his back, fights the buttons of his shirt off, and then jerks himself until he comes all over his chest. Now he's achy and sweet and blank and satisfied, and if he tilts his head he can see Washington's socked feet in front of the couch that he's laying next to. Washington likes to think of himself as a robot, but Alex has never heard anything more ridiculous. He's just a different kind of monster, really. Alex was driven to this point in his life, and kicked rudely out of the trunk of a car; Washington parked his Mercedes neatly in his VIP parking spot in Fuckedup-topia. 

"Hamilton," Washington says, from where he's sitting on the couch. Alex looks around for something to clean the come off his stomach and lube off his ass. 

"Tissues, maybe?" he says, and then a box of tissues hits the ground near him. Like everything else about Washington, they're top quality, soft even against his sensitive, worn ass. Three tissues later, he crawls over in front of the couch and lays there on his back, his fly still hanging open. 

"What do you think we should do with Mr. Conway?" Washington asks, looking at his painting. Alex thinks he probably made better art in third grade, and he only showed up to about half the classes. He keeps that to himself.

"Frame him for tax evasion?" he replies, shrugging, "I don't know. Plant drugs on him? Buy out the newspaper and force him into retirement? He's just some scum journalist, and he's not even funded with some top newspaper. He doesn't scare me." 

Washington hates journalists, so Alex hates journalists too, on principle. 

"New York Times or no New York Times, it's worth considering him as a threat," Washington says plainly. He looks over at Alex, still on the floor. "Although some kind of outright framing is probably too much. We'll sit on it for a little while." 

"Yes, sir," Alex replies. He gathers his come-and-lube tissues and dumps them on the fancy coffee table next to him. Glass, with some fancy wrought-iron design under it. 

"Throw those away and pour me some bourbon," Washington says, turning back to his painting. 

"Certainly," Alex says, and with a groan he stands up. Everything complains, but that's pretty regular for his ragged body. He tucks himself in and buttons up his suit pants. He leaves the shirt unbuttoned, because Washington's gaze hung on him for just a moment too long, and if Washington wants to look at his bitten chest, well, he'd be a bad employee not to oblige. 

** 

Playing Washington like a fiddle is bafflingly easy. Alex knows everything about him, after all, and what Washington doesn't tell him is hardly that difficult to discover given his clearance. Washington is refreshingly brutal and honest, and doesn't give a fuck that Alex watches porn at work as long as he can also rip some shithead a new asshole about their pathetic sales numbers. Being Washington's EA also allows him a lot better pickings in the company, too. It's a delicious, wonderful kind of invulnerability. Who says no to a man like him? 

"Who says no to a man like me," he purrs at his monitor. He's actually working right now, compiling a report on some documents that Washington dumped on his desk earlier this morning. He convinced Washington into a quickie, and his jaw's refreshingly sore. He takes a sip of chamomile tea, because that's the best way to restore one's throat after it's been fucked good and hard. 

It's with barely any effort that he convinces Washington into more and more brazen sexual exploits. Washington doesn't even close the office door, when Alex tells him not to. Alex seduces him fancy bathrooms (the ones without the attendants, at least). Alex seduces him in the office bathrooms of their allies and enemies, in their travelling hotel rooms, in Washington's limo. Washington thinks he's marble but Alex can read his repression like an open book. He's known plenty of assholes like this guy, and fucked all them. Washington's type is hardly the most difficult type to get to bend him over. It just requires a little coaxing. And he, of course, is a master sex coaxer. 

So the conquest of the condo is really the last step in the process. He's gotten Washington in both of their offices, and the executive bathrooms, and the charter plane, and the limo, and the various other semi-public events that Alex jerks himself off thinking about getting caught in. But the condo is exclusively Washington's in a new way, and Alex hungers for it, to fucking leave come smears on his glass doors and windows, stain his carpet, be fucked rough enough that they splash water out of the bathtub. 

The couch is easy, the shower next, the kitchen a little more difficult (against the stainless steel fridge, lacking the magnets regular humans usually have). He still hasn't seen the inside of the bedroom, but he's got time. He needs to spend more time going on long-term conquests, because it's a whole new way to dominate people, in his particular way. The real issue is that sometimes the people he conquests thinks he actually cares. Washington's perfect for that. Even if he did care, Washington would still hit him so hard he cut the inside of his mouth. They're a perfectly matched set, like the way wolves' teeth line up with one another. 

His next fixation is the dining room table. No more than four people have ever eaten at the dining room table, even though the table could easily seat sixteen. It's long and elegant, beautifully carved wood inset with other wooden designs, lacquered to a dark finish. Alex will be the first to admit it's a fucking gorgeous. Everything Washington owns is gorgeous. Washington himself is a work of fucking art, all firm, dark flesh, his gaze, the line of his lips, his incredible cock. So it all makes sense, in Alex's mind. When you literally do not give a shit about anything else besides running your company and also looking like the kind of person who runs one of the biggest companies in the world, why skimp on the fucking table? 

Anyway, he has plans for this table. It takes him a while to firm up his plans, and in the process of it sometimes Washington sits in one of the ornate chairs and just has Alex warm his cock while he works on documents. Washington won't feed him while he sits at his side like a proper little slut, but Alex has confidence he can bend him to it eventually. He has an 100% success rate in making Washington do what he wants, after all. That's good. He shivers just thinking about the possibilities, watches Washington type away at his office desk, another understatedly awesome piece of custom woodworking. He's supposed to be reading this report, but the thought of Washington taking him is just too distracting. He puts the paper down and crawls over on his hands and knees, and puts his head against Washington's thigh. His boss has a really good smell to him. He smells dark. He smells like a fucking man. It's a stupid fucking thought, but it's the only way to explain it. He smells like the kind of guy who looms over you and decides your life for you without considering your input. He smells like the guy you want to pound you until you scream, and he would be really fucking good at it. All of those things are true. 

Washington's hand drifts down and gives his hair a sharp yank. He knows Washington would prefer him to cut it, but he doesn't, because it's good when Washington pulls it. The pain buzzes through his head and down his spine. 

"I'm busy," Washington says, and pulls on his hair again. It's obviously supposed to be punishment, but the shock is electric under his flesh. 

"Not that busy," Alex replies, his voice breathy. The lust is already churning in his stomach.

"You are supposed to be reading that review," Washington adds, without looking down at him. "Did you bring it over here with you?" 

"I forgot it." 

"Hmm," Washington says, and he looks down his nose at Alex on the floor, and Alex's want goes up about fifteen notches. Then, because it's occasionally frustrating to have a piece of shit robot for a boss, Washington turns back to his computer and resumes typing out his email. Fine. Alex can wait. 

"Go back to reading that review," Washington says, after a little while, "I need your synopsis of it for the briefing on Monday." 

"It's a three-day weekend," Alex says, from the floor, "Memorial Day." 

"So?" 

"The briefing is on Tuesday. Even if you work on Monday, everyone else is out of the office, unless you work at the mall. No meetings. Sao Paulo even called and apologized for scheduling the conference call that day and demanded we reschedule in the honor of our lost servicemen and women." He gets through the end without chuckling, though the grin worms it's way onto his mouth. 

Washington grunts in irritation. Alex waits, even though he fucking hates waiting. Sometimes, but very rarely, you just have to allow people (read: the man you want to raw you) the illusion that you actually care. 

"Finish the review," Washington says, after a while. Then he gives Alex's hair an especially firm tug and keeps it there, and the pain makes Alex vibrate and gasp and harden, makes him want, floods his mouth with saliva and his brain with desire. "Then, maybe we'll consider ways to remember our fallen." 

Alex's whole body is tense when Washington lets go of his hair. He moans, low, wanting. 

"Review," Washington says, more firmly. Alex squeezes his eyes a few time and pinches himself to try and figure out which way is up. God, he fucking wants. He wants Washington to pin him to the floor and cane him until he screams. He wants to be held against a wall, powerless, as his body is taken. He wants to be pushed up against the arm of the couch like a ragdoll and fucked into like he's a tool for someone else's pleasure. 

"Review," he says, trying to make his voice even. He crawls back to the couch and sits on it, gives his cock a few squeezes. He usually talks to his dick, but he has a feeling Washington might withdraw his sex offer if he's annoyed again. So he just impresses the thought. _It’s ok. We’ll get it, don’t worry. He’s never been able to resist, after all. Just a little while longer, I promise._

"Good," Washington says, from the chair. Alex snorts and tries to focus on the document. He's most of the way done already, into the conclusions and all the other pointless shit you can skip. He forces himself into it, smears the words into his brain. 

When he gets to the end, his cock is throbbing. He studies the back of Washington's chair, the everpresent click of his keyboard, and wonders what he can do to make this happen faster. He has needs, goddamnit. He slides his cock out of his pants and gives it a few strokes, lets out a long, pleased breath through his lips. The clicking stops. 

"You better be done," Washington says, softly. 

"Oh, I've just started," he replies, letting the smirk be heard in his voice, "As for the review, the answers are obvious: hold fast. There's a lot of bullshit financial advice, but the best is to always to just hold fast." He draws the palm of his hand across the head of his cock and moans. "Now. About those dead soldiers?" 

Washington snorts and closes his laptop. He stands and pushes the chair out, and walks over to where Alex is still jerking himself, because it's a good way to pass the time. 

"You're a fucking god, you know that?" he says, raking his eyes up Washington's body. Hard to believe you could get a job that was just as rough as you wanted it and on top of that, get the perfect fuck included, that was also as rough as you wanted it. 

"I know," Washington says, easy. Alex snorts, and watches with hungry eyes as Washington undoes his belt. “You even listened when I asked you to work,” he looks down at the leather belt in his hand, “It’s important to reward you for your good behavior.” 

Alex practically flings himself over the arm of the couch, kicking out of his suit pants. “You should definitely reward me by punishing me,” he says. He grinds himself a little against the arm of the couch. 

“I definitely should, should I?” Washington asks. One of Washington’s hands draws over the round of his ass and gives it a good, firm squeeze. Alex’s eyes flutter shut. He hisses as nails dig into him, his breath hitching. A thumb at his bare asshole, just teasing. He pushes back out of principle. 

The hand withdraws, and Alex groans despite himself. It’s not too bad though, because he hears the rattling of the belt and it’s filled with promise. All his other thoughts, too busy and eating each other, impossibly tangled, go away. It’s blissfully still in his brain, his wild mind crushed into submission. He savors it. 

The metal buckle bites firm into his ass, and his empty brain is crackling with lightning. It’s heavy and achy and sharp and everything he wants. 

“You,” he manages, with barely any voice, “definitely should.” 

** 

So he has a plan for that dining room table. He even uses his own money, and not Washington’s, to buy himself some tools of his preferred trade (being fucked). He knows what Washington can’t resist about him. All he has to do is display it. 

Sometimes Washington works at the head of the table for no reason that Alex can discern. He looks incredible there, like a fucking king. Alex knows Washington knows he’s eying him, because Washington always knows, but Alex couldn’t give a fuck either way, honestly. Alex wants him almost all the time, can’t ever really remember a time when he worked at the company and knew who Washington was and didn’t want that body on his. He wonders, idly, when Washington first wanted him. 

He already finished the report Washington assigned to him and typed up his response because he didn’t feel like sleeping last night, and now he’s having the 36-hour no-sleep jitters, drained of exhaustion and replaced with pure electricity. Washington has mixed feelings about sleep: he’d never sleep, if he was able to, but at the same time his boss admits to always feeling better right after waking up. Alex is not so torn: he hates sleep, hates being tired, hates dreaming, hates the whole process. One of the worst things about this job, in fact, is that if he doesn’t sleep for long enough he can’t look at his computer screen, and that’s a necessary requirement for the position. So far he’s managed to not sleep for 60 hours and still function at about 85% capacity, which is usually good enough. One missing sleep-night is a nice easy medium, leaves him buzzing and antsy all over. 

He rubs his face and tries to put his wailing thoughts in some semblance of order. It does get harder to focus when he hasn’t slept, not that that’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to a guy. But this is the perfect opportunity for his next plan, and he can’t be getting distracted by himself. 

He slinks from where he’s creeping on Washington reading the Wall Street Journal to his assigned guest bedroom; he’s still never seen Washington’s bedroom. The door looms against the hall from his. As much as it’s tempting to investigate, he wants it as a conquest. Sure, he could throw himself into Washington’s bed and come all over his sheets, which probably cost more than anything Alex has ever owned - but that’s beginner shit. It’s not as fun to take what you want. It’s more fun to be given it. And when has Washington ever not given him what he wanted, with time? 

So, his bedroom. Painfully stale and decorated like a robot was making a house-museum for aliens to demonstrate how humans live. Comfortable sheets, a bedside table with an analog clock that doesn’t have an alarm. Weird art on the walls. An end table with a statue on it. He has a few suits hung in the closet, on cedar hangers. He’s even brought a few of his back-up sex toys, in case Washington proves particularly stubborn. 

He’s pretty sure his plan is going to work, though. He puts his nice cuffs on his wrists. He used to have cheap ones, but he got promoted, so he upgraded. The leather is rich and soft and wonderful against his skin, has that perfect smell that settles his brain. The rings are steel and even in the bad bedroom lighting, shine. He kicks off his socks and cuffs his ankles, too, tests the clasps. Last, his collar. Getting Washington to put the collar on him will be a good challenge, maybe after he claims Washington’s bed. Washington likes to believe he’s not a complete fucking sucker for this shit. It’s actually pretty funny. 

He tests the collar and studies himself in the mirror. It wouldn’t be too bad if he showed up to work wearing it one day, right? _Oh, I forgot about that,_ and Washington’s eyes dark and interested while the rest of him tells Alex to stop being a fucking moron and take it off. Maybe he could get Washington’s initials embossed in it, just to watch the man try to fight his body in being interested. Or he could get a different collar, just for that. Being rich is all it’s cracked up to be. He thinks about all the people who told him _money doesn’t solve your problems,_ and then he thinks that, if he had a mysterious time-travelling device, he would go back and tell every single one of them, _actually, it does._ Unless love and affection are going to buy him a second collar that he can get embossed with his favorite fuck’s initials. Nope. 

He kicks the rest of his clothes off and leaves them in a pile, studies himself in the mirror again, naked this time. He’s a good-looking motherfucker, especially when he’s vaguely bruised from some previous encounter. He thumbs a huge, multi-colored bite that Washington gave him over his nipple. He should get another tattoo, he thinks. What would be the best tattoo to suggest to Washington he should put a leash Alex and then drag him around by it? These are tough questions that he doesn’t have answers for. But enough of that. 

He flops onto the bed and stretches himself open quickly. He could take his time, but the last thing he wants is for Washington find something else to do and ruin his plan. It’s fine. It still feel so fucking good to stretch himself, to have slick fingers inside. And the promise of more -- well, his cock is plenty interested, half-hard between his legs. Perfect. No one, and especially not Washington, is going to turn him down. Last step: the condom, because Washington won’t bareback him even despite how fucking good it would be to have one of those huge loads in his ass. (That’s maybe after the bedroom and the putting-collar-on projects.) He hides it in his ankle cuff and thanks whatever gay asshole taught him that trick. 

So he’s ready and brilliant and hot. He closes the bedroom door behind him and pads back through the condo. Washington’s still sitting at the head of his table, though he’s moved from his newspaper to his Kindle. That’s the kind of sign that means that Alex takes to mean he was destined to carry through with this plan. He climbs onto the table with one of the chairs, feels the cool wood under his hands and knees. He shakes his head and lets his hair frame his face. Washington doesn’t look at him, but it doesn’t matter. He knows Washington knows he’s here, knows he’s like this, bare and ready to be used. Just like they both like him. 

He knows how to crawl properly, for maximum display. He stretches out his spine and flexes his thighs, takes slow strides across the length of the table, shows off every inch of his body. He keeps his head tilted down, hair a fringe in front of him, his eyes up on Washington. 

Three steps later, Washington makes eye contact and quirks an eyebrow, unimpressed. He puts the Kindle down and crosses his arm across the chest. Alex feels his interest along the base of his spine, as much as Washington pretends otherwise. He knows exactly what it looks like not to care about something, and Washington cares more than he likes to think. Washington’s put so much fucking effort into pretending not to care that it’s almost funny, the way he frowns at Alex. Alex lifts his head a little and licks his lips, overdramatic. Washington’s gaze flickers like the embers in a fire. 

Hook, line, and fucking sinker, baby.

“Hi,” Alex says, voice low as he comes further. It’s only a couple steps more, but he stretches each one of them out, lets Washington’s hard eyes sink into every fiber of his being. Washington looks at everything - things, people, his work - like they’re objects to improve himself and his company. It’s incredible. He wonders what goes on inside Washington’s head sometimes. He’s always imagined it as a fucking highway, straight as an arrow. Not like his fucking rain forest with all his thoughts constantly eating each other. 

Washington tilts his head, doesn’t speak. Alex is just out of touching range now, and Washington hasn’t twitched outside of a nod of his head, still has his powerful arms crossed against his barrel chest, straight up in his chair. Washington appraises him and finds him unworthy, because nothing is ever worthy to Washington. 

He twists himself around on the table until he’s sitting on it, one hand behind him for balance as he spreads his legs, enough to keep them on the table but perfect to display himself. He’s almost all the way hard already, just from the idea, and his cuffs and slicking himself up. Washington’s eyes roll down his body and Alex has the sense memory of his broad hands.

Alex licks his lips and wraps his hand around his cock, strokes himself firmly. God, it feels good, and better on Washington’s table with Washington staring at him like he’s meat. He lets his hand trail down, gives his balls a good squeeze that hums in his blood. Washington’s hands move, open his belt with his carefully curated disinterest that Alex suppresses a laugh at. He concentrates instead on himself, on the perfect feeling of his cock in his hand. He draws his thumb across the head, bring a bead of precome to his mouth, then trails his hand down his bare, bruised chest. He traces his own hipbone before resuming his strokes, and groans throatily. Fuck, he doesn’t even care if Washington touches him, it just mashes all his buttons to be showing himself off like this. He moves a little quicker now, a little firmer. 

Abruptly, Washington stands up, and Alex is shaken out of his sex-daze. He frowns, watches over his shoulder as Washington walks away from the table. For a second, he’s about to pout about how this fucking asshole couldn’t even appreciate a good show, but then --

“Stay,” Washington says. An inarguable command. That, Alex decides, is actually a very good thing, if Washington likes him bare and jacking off on his dining room table. He tries to put the anxiety out of his head and concentrates again on his body. He tweaks a nipple, rasps in a breath. 

Alex looks over his shoulder when he hears the soft footsteps and grins. Washington’s pants are still undone, and now in his hand he’s holding a gorgeous leather crop, one of Alex’s favorite toys. A new, fresh wave of desire surges through him, complemented with the satisfying thrill of bending this bigshot as he likes. Washington likes to pretend that he’s in control, but it’s one of the least believable things Alex has ever seen, and Alex has seen a lot of really, really pitiful things. Washington sits down back in his chair and sets the crop on the table, well within his reach. He draws himself out of his open pants and strokes himself idly, his gaze pretend-bored as Alex resumes showing himself off. Then, he picks up the crop and smacks it hard against Alex’s exposed, sensitive inner thigh. Alex chokes off a moan, the pain sharp and hot in his stomach. 

“Show me your hole,” Washington says, cooly, and he gives Alex a few more whacks to both of his thighs out of principle before he sets the crop down, perfectly straight, and resumes stroking himself. 

“Of course, sir,” Alex replies, his voice trembling and his skin shivery with the echo of the pain. It’s perfect in his head, assists with his lust in calming his brain down, stifles all the other shit that never stops racing through his mind. This is it, this is what he wants, all the fucking time. He shifts himself on the table, pulls one leg back against his chest so that Washington has a better view of him. 

“You’re slick,” Washington says. 

“For you,” he replies. 

Washington grunts in acknowledgement. He shifts in his chair, his hand not moving away from his own cock. 

“Fuck yourself,” Washington instructs, and Alex nods, closing his eyes and feeling the breath hot in his lungs. He shifts himself on the table so he can press fingers into himself, one, then two. God, it’s good like this, the pressure and the surge of having something inside him, and Washington’s gaze suffocating him, giving his favorite his own private show. Fuck, it’s _really_ good like this, enough that he pushes a third finger into himself, moaning in unabashed, all-consuming pleasure. He shifts to get deeper inside himself, to show off more, to be better. Washington smacks his thigh with the crop again, so close to his cock that it jumps. He could do this for a long fucking time. He could sit on this table and bury his fingers into his ass with Washington staring at him for hours, he’s pretty sure. 

“Hamilton,” Washington says, and Alex barely manages to meet his eyes as he spreads his fingers inside him. He crawls closer, until his fingers are folded over the edge of the table. God, this close, Washington looks even better, impenetrable and stern. Alex wants that tongue in his mouth. He wants that tongue in his ass. He wants that body with the same intensity that he always has. 

“Hello, sir,” Alex purrs. Washington’s eyes are dark and huge and unfeeling, sealed off from him in the best kind of way. Alex settles himself at the end of the table, gently moving Washington’s kindle to the nearby chair so he can take up the space, on his knees with his hands on his somewhat-reddened thighs. Washington meets his gaze and draws the pads of his fingertips down Alex’s arm. It’s painfully, wonderfully possessive. It’s powerful and understated and claiming and everything Alex loves about this fucked up thing he’s wrung them into. He’s a fucking genius in both senses of the world. 

“This is quite an arrangement,” Washington says. He trails his fingers over the muscle in Alex’s thigh. The touch makes Alex hiss. 

“I hope you don’t mind,” Alex replies, smirking. Of course Washington doesn’t mind. Washington couldn’t resist him if he tried, and he has tried. 

“You weren’t interrupting anything monumentally important,” Washington says. His hand teases up Alex’s shoulder, and he curls his index finger through the steel ring in the front of Alex’s collar. He gives it a little tug, not enough to really move Alex anywhere, but enough to test the firmness of the buckle around the back. Alex’s cock jumps, and a bolt of heat laces through him at the pull. The urge to close his eyes and begged to be fucked grows like a weight in his stomach. It wouldn’t be too hard, he thinks.

Either way, Washington’s finger pulling on his collar is going to the top of his spank bank fantasies. 

The finger slides out of the collar’s steel ring and that firm, dark hand curls around the back of his neck. That’s good enough, he can do that, he can go with this. He reorganizes his body at the end of the table as Washington’s hand slides into his hair and pulls him down. Alex savors the way that Washington’s cock, dark and hard and thick and long, fills his field of vision. Alex grips the end of the table and draws his tongue along the shaft. 

Washington rests his hand, in his full casual possessiveness, at the top of Alex’s spine as Alex worships him with his mouth. Licks him until he’s slick and wet and groaning, teases his tongue across the dark head, not wasting a single precious drop of precome that beads there. This is even better than he imagined it, than he fantasized it, with Washington sitting easy and loose and hard for him to have, like a fucking buffet. He teases himself for a while, not fully taking Washington into his mouth, just worshipping him like this. Then Washington applies a little pressure to the back of his neck and he knows what to do. He licks his lips just once and slide his mouth completely over Washington’s cock, savoring the way the heat and hardness of it on his tongue. Washington groans above him; he smirks around the size of it. 

Sometimes he teases Washington because it’s fun, and because he likes Washington's struggle between demanding he work harder and pretending he doesn’t care. But he doesn’t this time, just concentrates on choking himself and feeling Washington’s thighs clench under his assault. He swallows around the head, feels Washington hiss and stroke his fingers over the top knob of his spine. He starts a little mental timer in his head to see how long it takes before that hand is in his hair, pushing him down - that’s the kind of guy Washington is, the kind of guy he likes him to be. But at least for now he’s in control, and he sucks to please, sliding wet lips up and down, his tongue hot, throat tight. Washington’s impressive but Alex has sucked bigger, and in a leap of faith he moves his hands from where they’re clenched against the end of the table to Washington’s still-clothed thighs. He’s dangerously unbalanced now, barely not falling into Washington’s lap. It’s wonderful, and it buzzes down his spine. Washington could do anything to him, like this. Could throw him off the table, if he wanted. This turned on, it’s hard to imagine something that won’t feel good. He’d hit the ground with a thud, go skidding across the floor. Washington might loom over him. Maybe he’d just leave him there, stunned. 

Washington’s hand slides from the top of his spine under his collar, drawing the leather tight against the front of his throat. Breathing is even harder now, not improved by Washington’s cock in his throat. He can feel the oxygen rasping through him. 

Then Washington yanks him up by the back of the collar and cuts off his air completely. His fantasies are wiped from his mind along with everything else, his sole thought of finding additional breaths. His head lolls as he gags, fingers clenching spasmodically in Washington's muscular thighs. A wild, aroused tremble shakes through him; darkness starts to creep in at the corner of his vision, spots bursting. Maybe this is the end and he's outlived his usefulness, and it wouldn't be too bad, for things to be permanently quiet, for his wild thoughts to be tamed -- 

Washington releases his collar and sets him completely back on the dining room table. For a second there’s nothing, just him gasping and coughing as he remembers what it’s like to be completely conscious, to have his airways available for his complete use. The table, at least, is cool and smooth under his bare skin. This table has always been there for him, he thinks, distantly. 

His thoughts are still and scattered as Washington threads his fingers through his hair and pulls him back over the edge of the table. The pain bolts through his head, down his spine. He gasps, his mouth hanging open, and that’s the opportunity Washington uses to slide his cock back into Alex’s mouth. 

“Better,” Washington says. It seems very far away. Everything seems very far away right now. Too close are his aches and pains and his cock throbbing between his legs and his heart trying to burst from in his chest and his head pounding from Washington’s grip on his hair. Washington shifts his hands and takes control, uses him for the wet cavern of his mouth and the tightness of his throat. Alex gives up and gives in and gives himself over, surrenders to the dull numbness of being used, especially like this, especially by this specific man. Let him bury his cock deep in his throat. Let him fuck his hips up as he pushes Alex’s head down. Alex doesn’t gag anymore, but it’s close, can feel where he would, where his body has some long-repressed memory of the discomfort. He pulls in as much air as he can through his nose, concentrates on breathing. Leaves the rest of him to Washington, like they both like. 

Washington is saying something above him, maybe about him, maybe not - he’s too far gone to really be listening. His brain is hazed-out and still with pain, with pleasure, with stimulation, with the sense of ownership. His throat still aches where the collar half-strangled him; the thought, somehow, reminds him of the condom still in his ankle cuff. It’s hard to remember how to do anything, and it must be funny to watch him all at once try to wriggle around to grab it, and at the same time try to say something when Washington’s cock in his throat, his other hand flexing from a white-knuckle grip didn’t know he was holding on the table. 

Washington releases his grip on his head and sits back. Alex looks up at him and forces a smirk as he displays the wrapped condom. He must look like a total fucking disaster: can feel the tear tracks on his cheeks, red eyes, swollen lips, face spit slick, hair wild from being pulled. It’s funny that looking so bad can have him feeling so _nothing._ He feels nothing when he’s allowed - the best kind of nothing, skin vibrating in ten different kinds of ways and all of them settling hot in his stomach. Washington plucks the condom from his grip and studies it, then him. Then, eyes flickering with his decision, he opens the wrapper, takes the condom out, and grabs Alex’s wrist to put the empty wrapper back under his cuff. 

Washington strokes himself one or twice, still slick with spit, and then he rolls the condom down the length of his cock. Alex shifts on the table, wipes his face, and brings his hand to his ass. He’s still good and slick, but him fucking himself with three fingers seems ages ago now. He tries one finger, then two, then offers the whole situation a mental shrug. What would he do, say no? 

“Wet me,” Washington says. Alex bends his head again, feels a new ache growing in his neck and his spine and his shoulders. The latex is unpleasant on his tongue, but it’s far from the worst thing he’s ever put in his mouth, and the promise of the future is too promising to care. 

“How do you want me?” Alex asks, once he pulls away, separating his lips from that wonderful cock with a nice loud _pop._

Washington considers him more thoughtfully than a man as hard as Washington ought to be able. “Turn around,” he says, and Alex obeys. He takes in the dining room. Washington’s firm hands find his waist, and pull him back. He helps, as much as he can - puts a hand on the table to try and manage some of his weight - but it’s mostly just all that pure, restrained strength controlling him. He feels the press of Washington’s cock against him and then, yes, yes, yes, pressing inside of him. Even though he’s slick and Washington’s wet, he’s not that stretched and fuck, his body always seems to forget how big Washington is, now much he forces Alex open. 

He gasps with the stretch of it, squeezing his eyes shut. It definitely hurts, but that’s never fucking stopped him. Washington’s breath is a sharp, desperate rasp against the back of his neck, making his hair tickle his shoulders. Washington lowers him onto his cock at his own pace. 

“You’re so fucking huge,” Alex gasps out, trying to will his body over the edge he knows exists, from where it just complains that he mistreats it to where it understands that he just wants to overwhelm it in the best kind of way. There’s always too much going on. He’s never found a better way to handle it than this, the pressure and the pleasure and the pain, all muddled together. 

Washington chuckles into his ear and wraps an arm around his stomach, pulling him closer, deeper. Alex bites his lip and groans, flexing his toes as if that will reduce his urge to squirm. It’s just - so fucking much, the bite of Washington’s belt buckle into the meat of his ass, him feeling so fucking penetrated. His mind’s blank with it. Stifled and compressed. His forever-running thoughts are gagged. Washington pushes his hips up and everything in his brain and body goes white-hot. He rolls his hips back, because there’s nothing else he can do, really. It’s so much, too much, not enough. They shift against each other, and Washington pulls him close, silent besides from his hot, panting breaths that brush past Alex’s ear. Every movement makes his whole self go _not enough--too much--stop--don’t stop--_

Washington clenches his arms around him and surges, and then his face and his chest are pressed against the cool wood of the table and Washington’s hands have moved to his hips and he can’t even push back as he’s taken. He grips the side of the table and just allows himself to be fucked. It’s all of Washington’s trademark fury, pummeling him like this, harsh and powerful and overwhelming and ruthless. He’s been fucked by so many people in so many different kinds of ways and none of them hold a fucking candle to the way George Washington fucks him. This man’s perfect cock is in his ass and the table is biting into his stomach and the wood is slick with his sweat and everything is just so hot and all-consuming. He’s nothing, has nothing, is nothing, was never anything. 

A broad, firm hand wraps around his cock, half-hard from neglect, where it hangs, ignored, under the table. Two strokes and he’s throbbing and fucking into Washington’s fist, his body settling into a well-known rhythm of back against where he’s split, forward into a mostly dry-fist that’s locked around him. He usually can last longer but with all of this he can’t, is coming with a moan over the hardwood floor. Washington pummels him even harder now, and it’s delicious and unbearable. He’s slack against the table as Washington slams him with a particularly vicious thrust, comes inside him with a grunt. 

He takes it because he’s good at taking it. There’s a weird, suspended moment where it’s just the heat of their bodies where they’re joined, Alex’s emptied-out brain, Washington’s hard breathing. The cool wood under his stomach, his weak legs barely holding him up. He smiles against the wood.

His post-orgasm haze is disturbed by Washington pulling out of him. There’s a heavy noise, which must be Washington dropping back into his chair. Alex manages enough focus to lower himself from the table and onto the floor without thudding. He concentrates on breathing, watches Washington’s socked feet idly. 

Washington looks down at him. They make eye contact. 

“I hope you don’t intend to let that dry on the hardwood,” Washington says, and his eyes find the white streaks of Alex’s come on the floor under the table. Alex doesn’t suppress the shiver of pleasure from the way Washington says it. 

“No, sir,” Alex says, and he savors the aches all over his body as he works himself back up to his hands and knees. His come is still warm against his tongue, the floor tasteless and firm. His post-orgasm hormones are still warm in his blood, and his whole body is sore, and he’s under a fucking twenty-grand table cleaning his come from the floor - life is fucking good. He crawls back to Washington’s feet and curls up there, feeling exhausted and satisfied all the way down to his bones. Idly, Washington rests a foot on his shoulder - not quite stepping on him, just keeping him right where he belongs. Alex looks at the bottom of the table and smirks. 

It’s fun to know that Washington pretends he doesn't fall for his plans every time. He wonders, idly, what part of the condo he should aim for next.


End file.
